


Behind the Scenes

by pocketmouse



Category: Slings & Arrows
Genre: Gen, POV Original Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-23
Updated: 2009-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-05 01:16:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/36172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketmouse/pseuds/pocketmouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Actors don't do all the work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Behind the Scenes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Scribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scribe/gifts).



The Grey Goose is the actors' bar. The loading dock is the crew's.

Well sure, they'll go to the Goose if someone else is paying. But the technical director, Brian, has a Master tool box that's had the interior gutted and 'repurposed' into the best portable bar this side of Ontario.

"Did you rent the truck?" he asks Denicia as he pours himself a whiskey neat. She's lying on the diamond-plate of the deck, one arm thrown over her eyes, and doesn't look up as he hands her the glass.

"It'll be here at 8 AM tomorrow," she says. "John and Dave are my carps for the day, Matt's got the day off." Brian nods. Matt had been in 'til 3 AM finishing clearing the last of the set into the shop, and cutting it down to portable sizes. John and Dave should have an easy time of it in the morning, all things considered.

"Fucking directors," he says, and cracks open a beer for himself. Changing an entire set design at the last minute isn't unheard of. But it's a pain in the fucking ass, and all the crews have been pushing themselves, between the extra work on the Chekhov series and of course the surprise of having to coordinate staging a funeral. Everyone's been earning their paychecks.

"Hey y'all." _Well, almost everyone_, Brian thinks as Pier comes bouncing in. He pats Denicia on the knee then sits primly between them, trying to find the cleanest spot on the grungy deck. His outfit is immaculate, and it's obvious he hasn't been up a ladder all week. "Oh, mix me a martini, won't you, darling?" He beams at Brian in a way that would be cute if he was a girl.

"And how was _your_ day, dearest?" Brian asks dryly. He pours the drink. "All that paperwork getting to you? Any lightbulbs need changing?"

"Oh, you think you're so funny," Pier mock-slaps him, and sips at the martini. "Ugh. It took me all day to clear the pyro gear away. My hands still smell like gasoline."

Better, then. If he's just come from a scrub after putting up gas lines and flashpots, then him looking like he usually does during design review week is all right. Pier's not a diva -- lisp and Georgia accent aside -- but lighting always has the easiest time of it once a show's gone into tech.

"Oh my god no one's going to fuck me as long as I smell like this," Pier puts the drink down, making a face.

Denicia laughs. "Pier, this is New Burbage. No one's going to fuck you as long as you're not an actor."

Pier makes a hurt noise. "Look, I'm not asking for much. It's not like I'm asking Jack Crew to do me in his dressing room." Pier grins. "Though I wouldn't turn him down." Denicia makes a noise of agreement. "I'd just like one of your nice big carpenters to hit me up, you know?" Pier throws a pout at Brian that is obviously meant for him, and not his carpenters, but Brian ignores the nudge. He's straighter than an arrow.

"You're talking carpenters, and you think they'd have a problem with you because you smell like gasoline?" He raises an eyebrow at the redhead.

Pier sighs. "I move to Canada for this? Where the hell are all the gay men?"

"Toronto," Alice answers. She crowds into Brian's space as she pushes past him to open up the bar, serving herself. Tomato juice, guava, Curaçao, and something clear -- she mixes her own drinks for a reason. Brian does the basics, Alice is a professional artist.

"Dammit," Pier grumbles. He scoots over a little to make room for her. She squeezes in between Brian and Pier. Brian tries not to look down her tank top. Much.

"I think the only saving grace in this whole mess is that I didn't get around to distressing the costumes."

There is a murmured round of agreement. Out several thousand dollars on rentals, purchases, hauling and installation -- and most of what could be returned would eat any profit earned back in shipping fees. Raw materials could always be kept and put to use in another show, but specialty items -- the fucking _car_, and that had taken most of a week -- those had to be taken as a loss.

"What's she doing in there, anyway?" The costume shop had been locked up tight all day, obvious sounds of work inside, but no one in or out.

"I saw Maria in there earlier, and Jerry. They're probably going over the union contracts." Brian nods. Jerry was the union rep this season, and if he was there, it had to be about contracts.

"I hear Tennant got rid of all the costumes."

"Well, it's not like Nichols' designs were going to work without the rest of the concept." Pier says with a grimace. "And really, would you want _any_ of that? It was hideous."

"Yeah," Alice says, answering both of them at once. "And paying the actors the fees for them to use their own clothes is still probably going to be cheaper than going out and buying them all new." It's a thrifty move, the problem is that it leaves the costumers with no backups if something happens.

"And I bet this means we cut the stage blood, too," she adds brightly. She leans back against Pier, whose extra insulation makes him a warmer target than Brian's own lanky frame. He tries not to be jealous.

"Oh, that would be great," Denicia adds. She sits up at last, passing Brian her glass for a refill. He takes the distraction. "Can I just say, it's a shame the man's apparently insane, since all his choices so far have been so damn _reasonable_."

There's a laugh, and Brian and Pier exchange somber glances.

"He is actually crazy," Pier says, used to being outspoken. "I mean, yeah, ha ha, you know, directors are psychotic, actors are prima donnas. But he did really lose it. Onstage. And he never came back."

Actors throw shit fits all the time. They've all seen it, some of them experienced it first-hand. At their level of professional work, it's hard to go a season without hearing about how someone has done something -- held a performance on account of a missing lucky pair of underwear, not showed up to rehearsal because they'd found a single-day gig that was better paying -- but actors are still divas, and needy. To leave the stage, and never come back -- that didn't happen. Felony charges aside, there were contracts, and _performances_ \-- the show didn't stop just because an actor did. Usually they'd have their temper tantrum, and be back the next day, confident that people were paying attention to them.

"I heard about the thing with the sword," Denicia says.

"It was a prop," Brian defers. "I mean, everyone's glad he laid into Nichols. But they've always been at odds. Tennant's not _dangerous_. He's just... Well, different's not the right word."

He'd seen Tennant on the stage this evening, after everyone else had left. The man had been talking earnestly to someone who wasn't there. And not in that paced, internal way that suggested lines being rehearsed. This had been frantic energy, focused somewhere in the wings. Tennant had seemed scattershot, wild. But more together, more like he used to be, than he ever was in production meetings or the pieces of rehearsal that Brian had sat in on.

"Just watch him, I guess," he says carefully. "See what the actors do." Like animals sniffing a returning pack member. The fallout would come through the actors, most likely.

The sky is starting to get dark. Tomorrow tech would start -- fifteen-hour days and longer, with little sleep and everyone's tensions high. Everyone would be riding that wave of expectation. Waiting to see what threads would snap. Brian feels a little bad for Tennant. He won't be wanting that attention.

"We'll just have to see what happens," he says, reaching behind Alice to collect empty glasses. The others take this as a sign to start breaking up. They'll save the heavy drinking for after the show is open.

The door to the wings is open as Brian walks out, on the way to his truck. The lights are on. He pauses for a moment, but decides not to intrude. He figures they'll all see enough tomorrow as it is. Nothing stays secret for long in a theatre.


End file.
